


Hour Follows Hour

by Suzelle



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aragorn as Thorongil, Aragorn in Rohan, Dúnedain - Freeform, Everything in the Angle has gone to shit, F/F, Family, Friendship, Gen, Original Character Death(s), Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:27:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28275300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzelle/pseuds/Suzelle
Summary: Aragorn has begun his great journeys as Thorongil, and the Dúnedain must defend the North without their Chieftain. Friendships are tested, family bonds are strained, and those left behind strive to find a new meaning in hope.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Hour Follows Hour

**Author's Note:**

> This story focuses on OCs who have made appearances in my previous Tolkien fics and references events that have taken place in those stories. If I've done my work right, it should still stand on its own.
> 
> Thanks as always to Salvage for the beta.

**T.A. 2957**

Sunlight glared down upon the ground with the harshness of early winter, remnants of frost sparkling between the sparse grass that remained on the barrow-top. The blinding light kept Nethril from staring at the barrows too long, and she shaded her eyes with her veil so she could see the people gathered before her, unable to tell if they blinked from the sun or tears. Her own throat remained tight, a wretched precursor to weeping, and she drew in a slow breath to steady herself. The number of burials they’d held these past months had not hardened her to grief—a blessing, she supposed, in its own way, but not one that made the losses any easier to bear.

With care, four Ranger captains bore Meldroch, son of Telemar, into the barrow, the body clad in a grey cloak pinned with a many-rayed star, the captain’s sword upon his chest. Nethril shivered as the wind whipped across the crags of the Angle and down into the barrow, the silence broken by whistling howls between the jagged rocks. Adanel stood beside her, straight-backed and stiff, and her normally harsh voice softened into a clear, melodic lilt as she sang an elegy for the fallen. Gratitude washed over Nethril once more that Adanel had offered to perform the final rites—she did not know if she could bear to preside yet again, and Meldroch had been a dear friend to the old woman.

 _The old, the young, fathers and sons alike,_ she thought. _No one has been spared, not this year._

Her thoughts were bitter, but she could not bring herself to soften them with platitudes or hope, not after all the Dúnedain had suffered. She was no stranger to hardship and grief, but the disasters that beset her people in the past months had multiplied uncounted, worse even than the dark days when Arathorn had been slain. Orc incursions from the south, plague sweeping through every settlement, and the final abandonment of the Swanfleet outpost, death and despair following at every turn. Even their sole, grim victory ended in grief, a battle planned by Dírhael that routed the enemy forces and left every orc dead. In the moment, it seemed they’d taken no fatalities, only Meldroch with his arrow wound, one he easily dismissed. But two weeks later, infection set in, spreading faster than the healers could stop, and the most steadfast captain Nethril knew sickened and died in the space of a heartbeat. So here they stood once more, another life taken from them too soon, his bones left to crumble to dust while his kin found a way to fight on.

A small, quickly stifled sob sounded to her left, and Nethril turned to see tears running down Mellaer’s cheeks, her lip trembling as her grandfather’s body disappeared from view. Nethril reached out to grip her sister-in-law’s hand, steadying her in the only way she knew. Adanel’s voice echoed out, the haunting lament one Nethril never wanted to hear again, and she prayed with all her might to the Valar that this be the last funeral they suffered through this year.

The lament ended, the burial concluded, and Adanel stepped forward, her mithril-threaded circlet glinting in the bitter sun. She stared at the barrow in silence, swaying on her feet, and Nethril approached her, suddenly worried she might collapse. But then Adanel turned, her face set in resolute defiance, steadier than ever when she faced her people. 

_“Aurë entuluva!_ ” she cried, and her voice softened when she repeated the call. “ _Aurë entuluva._ Day shall come again.”

***

A smaller, more informal gathering took place at the Chieftain’s house later that day, where Meldroch’s close friends and kin could celebrate his life away from the cold, hollow weight of the barrows. Nethril had tidied the main hall as best she could earlier that morning, doing her best to identify which odds and ends belonged to the house’s temporary residents, those who had fled from Eregion. Now the smell of roast mutton and pipeweed lay heavy upon the room, the air hazy from smoke, and Nethril made sure everyone had a plate of food before she sat between Mellaer and Isilmë beside the great hearth, warmed by ale and crackling flames. They ate in silence while subdued conversation floated around them, Mellaer’s face pale and drawn as she watched her mother and uncle talking quietly across the room. A pang shot through Nethril at the sight, grief she only avoided through sheer luck, and she desperately wished Halbarad was not out on patrol.

“Are you all right?” she finally asked. Mellaer sniffed and nodded, a small smile lightening her features even as she wiped at her eyes.

“I am. Stubborn old bastard. Thought he knew better than the healers, right up to the end.” She snorted and shook her head. “I’m glad I was there with him, when he drew his last.”

“I am, too.” Nethril embraced her friend tightly and kissed her on the cheek. “There were few he loved more.”

A chorus of laughter sounded from the other side of the room, and Nethril turned to where a cluster of older Dúnedain sat, Dírhael and Ivorwen together with Rangers who’d fought beside Meldroch for well over half a century. Adanel held court in the center, her eyes sparkling in a way they rarely did now, and she gestured for Meldroch’s children to join them before she continued her tale.

“So concerned with the order of things, the way the Chieftains had always conducted their affairs. He could not possibly accede to a mere _woman_ taking up the mantle, not when the line of Elendil led us for a thousand years and more.”

“I remember,” Findroch, Meldroch’s eldest son, said with a smile. “The look on his face when he stormed back into the house, after that first harvest festival. What was it you said to him? I never found out.” 

“Oh, I threatened him with a posting to Fornost,” Adanel said airily. “Made it clear I considered his opinions of no value. I may have shoved him against a wall? The details are hazy.”

Everyone burst into laughter once more, and even Nethril let out a small chuckle. She was too young to remember Adanel’s tumultuous first years as acting Chieftain, but it was difficult to imagine her and Meldroch ever having been at odds. Whatever strife existed between them, they came out of those early fires united as steadfast allies—indeed, ones Nethril had butted her head against more than once in her years counseling Aragorn.

“A traditionalist to the end,” her friend Halrovan said, a wistful tinge to his voice as he shook his head. “One wonders if he had the right of it, though.”

His tone remained light, but Nethril gave him a sharp glance, his words promising nothing good. A good-natured, jovial man who loved making people groan with terrible puns, Halrovan now sat hunched and pensive, resting his arms on his knees as he looked out at the small crowd.

“Had the right of what, Halrovan?” Findroch regarded him with a mild snort. “He’d be first to admit his faults.”

Halrovan shrugged. “The Dúnedain have always been commanded by a son of Elendil, one well in his prime. What are we to do, when left in the hands of women and old men?”

A horrible, alarmed jolt shot through Nethril, all else forgotten as she stared at her friend in disbelief. Isilmë placed a warning hand on her leg to keep her from rising, and out of the corner of her eye Nethril saw her shake her head just slightly. A rather stunned silence descended upon the room, one quickly broken by Dírhael, who let out an amused _hmph_ and leaned back in his chair.

“Women and old men are the reason you’re alive, my boy.” He stretched out and put his arm around Ivorwen, seemingly unbothered by Halrovan’s words. “Meldroch key among them.”

“And now he’s gone,” Halrovan said. “Gone in the service of a battle that should never have been fought.”

“You—” Nethril started, but Isilmë’s grip tightened, and no one else seemed to hear her, gazes fixed instead upon Findroch. The Ranger captain seemed to take the anger on his father’s behalf in stride, raising his hands with a resigned sigh. 

“It’s fought, Halrovan, and there’s no use debating what should have been. He went out like he always wished, on the battlefield in service of his people. And what a glorious sight he was, that day! By the Valar, when three descended upon him at once…”

The conversation returned to normal after that, shifting back to tales and memories of Meldroch, but Nethril sat vibrating in indignant silence for the rest of the wake. She kept glancing back at Halrovan, who eventually came over to their table with two of their other Ranger friends, joking and laughing like nothing was amiss. Nethril forced herself to act normally, keeping her voice even, but her heart fluttered in her throat when the evening finally came to a close, dreading the conversation that was to come. She stood at the doorway to bid people farewell, an extra embrace for Mellaer’s mother and a warm smile for Findroch, who crushed her between his arms with an unexpected hug.

“You delighted him,” Findroch said, fondness in his eyes. “You know that, yes?”

Nethril nodded, her throat suddenly tight, her own barely acknowledged grief for Meldroch simmering just beneath the surface. She leaned against the doorway, exhausted by the day’s events, but straightened at the sight of Halrovan, who bowed deeply to Adanel before doing the same to her with a cheeky little grin.

“This was good,” Halrovan said, and gestured back to the main hall. “Gave us a chance to laugh again.”

“Aye.” Nethril glanced back at Adanel, who tilted her head in a small nod, her eyes glittering with icy anger. She pulled her cloak off its hook near the door and followed Halrovan out into the night.

“Want to come over for a cup of tea?” he asked. “Saereth keeps asking after you.”

“Another time.” Nethril steeled herself before she stopped to face her friend. “Halrovan, what was that, tonight?”

He regarded her in confusion. “What was what? I’m not—"

“You just challenged my authority in front of half the captain’s council!” Nethril exclaimed, then drew in a deliberate, steadying breath to calm herself, the sharp night air scraping against her lungs. They could not have this conversation with raised voices. “If my conduct as acting Chieftain troubles you, I welcome your counsel. In private. Away from other Rangers.”

“Oh, Nethril.” Remorse slid briefly across Halrovan’s face. “I meant none of that for you. You know where my quarrel lies, and who I spoke against.”

“My grandfather,” Nethril said, exasperated. “Who, might I remind you, commands the Rangers at my direction.”

“Commands us to ruin,” Halrovan retorted, and Nethril suppressed a groan. Halrovan had objected strongly to Dírhael’s plan to lure orcs to the plains along the Hoarwell in defense of the Angle, the two men nearly coming to blows in the tense hours before the battle. Nethril sat up with her old friend long into the night in an attempt to calm him down, understanding how much he despised the risk of exposing their hidden refuge. She had thought, with their victory, the matter had been put to rest, but now that Meldroch lay dead…

“What would you have me do, Halrovan? Our losses would be far worse if not for Dírhael. There is no one else to lead.”

“Yes, there is,” Halrovan said stubbornly. “Only trouble is, he’s occupied east of the mountains at present.”

“Morgoth’s balls,” Nethril muttered, the curse escaping her in spite of herself. “I can’t just wave my hands and summon Aragorn home.”

“Can you not? Surely he would return, if he knew how dire the situation was.”

“Aragorn’s presence would not change our situation. He could not have stopped the summer fevers sweeping through, and even a commander of his skill could not keep the Swanfleet outpost intact.”

Halrovan did not answer, merely raised his eyebrows, and bitter, corrosive frustration rose within Nethril. It escaped no one’s notice that the Dúnedain’s misfortune began almost as soon as Aragorn departed the Angle, the first orcs sweeping through Eregion barely a fortnight after “Thorongil” ventured toward Gondor. No one, Nethril prayed, was foolish enough to actually believe their Chieftain’s absence invited such bad luck, but apparently her prayers had gone unanswered. Even she fell victim to the thought at her lowest moments, no matter how sternly she tried to convince herself otherwise.

“If you’re truly concerned about Dírhael, Hal, I would have you tell me. But I cannot have you sowing discord like that among the men. You _cannot_ malign the commander of the Rangers in the Chieftain’s house. It maligns me, whether you meant it or not.” 

“Fine,” Halrovan snapped. “Consider my concerns noted, then.”

“Fine,” Nethril retorted, irritated beyond measure, and they walked together in awkward, pointed silence, the darkness more profound with the moon hidden by stormclouds. At last, Halrovan stopped and sighed, some of Nethril’s own weariness reflected in his eyes when he turned to face her.

“You sure you won’t have that cup of tea? I don’t wish for us to leave things like this.”

The very last thing Nethril wanted was to spend another moment with him, not after the trouble he’d caused. But Dírhael’s own words echoed through her head, how one should avoid parting on bad terms with a friend, and some of the tension leeched out of her shoulders when she smiled up at Halrovan. “All right, then. We can talk of better things.”

***

Nethril only seemed to grow busier as the days grew shorter, an ever-increasing load of tasks to accomplish during the few scant hours of daylight. The main hall of the Chieftain’s house still hosted over two dozen people displaced by the Swanfleet abandonment, so she began each morning with her kitchen overrun by chattering mothers who helped her prepare enough breakfast for a small army. She listened to the minor disputes and concerns of those who had yet to find permanent homes, constantly calculating their winter stores in the back of her mind, and she tripped her way through an assortment of cots and straw pallets laid out in the main hall, dodging children who ran between the eaves and begged her help in finding the barn cat. She shut herself in the map room with increasing frequency, poring over field reports and harvest inventories with Dírhael, a dull ember of dread always lodged in her throat as she tried to determine the best ways of keeping her people alive.

She found welcome news while on one of her morning walks a fortnight after Meldroch’s burial, the smell of snow in the air and bare branches spindling up into the grey sky. Isilmë took her to see progress on the new homes being built for the Swanfleet evacuees, and Nethril’s jaw dropped when she beheld six snug cottages, far more complete than when she’d last seen them. Only the roofs remained, a handful of men balanced on the beams, the familiar sound of hammering and friendly chatter echoing down to where they stood.

“These were just skeletons last week,” she said, and Isilmë grinned.

“The men all want to kill me, but we’re nearly finished. We ought to have everyone settled by Mettarë.”

“That would be a welcome gift for the new year,” Nethril said in relief. They’d had a handful of empty houses prepared to welcome back those who’d left the Angle for Swanfleet five years before, but housing the remainder of the Dúnedain had proven a near-insurmountable challenge. Now it seemed the risk Nethril took in pulling Rangers off patrol for the rebuilding project paid off, and the families in the Chieftain’s house would not shiver on the stone floors on the coldest nights of winter.

“Any more grumblings?” she asked, eyeing the Rangers warily. Isilmë shook her head.

“Not since that first week. They’ve seen the need, after spending time with those from Eregion. It’s those still in the field you should concern yourself with, I think. Supposedly your uncle is angry enough for the lot of them.”

“Lovely,” Nethril groaned, and Isilmë squeezed her hand, reaching up to kiss her gently on the cheek. They did not dare display any greater affection here, but it was more than enough—just her presence kept Nethril standing in a way she could not possibly have alone. _The one good thing about all this_ , she mused, no longer ashamed to think it. She would not have survived the year without Isilmë at home.

She found herself looking forward to her midday counsel with the captains, eager to pass on the good news, but her spirits plummeted when she saw Dírhael, Findroch, and Halrovan gathered in the map room, grim looks on all their faces. Findroch paced back and forth in front of the fire, his restless energy palpable, while Halrovan glowered at his tea, his warrior’s hands engulfing the steaming cup. Her grandfather greeted her with a smile, but it did not reach his eyes, and she steeled herself when she sat straight-backed in her usual chair, hands folded neatly atop the table.

“Trouble near the Shire,” Dírhael said without preamble. “We received a message from Tarcil this morning. White wolves come out from the South Downs, terrorizing the Greenway. They’ve made their way toward the barrow-downs, and—”

“Oh, no,” Nethril inhaled sharply, instinctive fear rendering her light-headed. “Surely the wights would not possess such creatures.”

“Nothing so dire,” Findroch reassured her, and she sagged back in her chair, irritated at her own racing heart. She expected the worst now, after all their misfortune, and still had nightmares of their terrifying encounter with the barrow-wights last year. “But there’s been a troll sighting too. It seems fear has made them bolder.” 

“They’ve asked for reinforcements,” Halrovan said. “The Angle can spare the men, so I thought—”

“Can we?” Nethril asked. She made sure to glance at Findroch rather than Dírhael, but the broad-shouldered man only shrugged and deferred in turn to her grandfather. Dírhael drummed his fingers on the table, frowning as he considered the question, and Halrovan scowled. 

“It depends on whether our ambush attracted unwelcome attention. These are not normal times. They may never be, not after the wight attack last year. We were horribly outmatched, and if not for Mithrandir…”

“We weren’t outmatched,” Halrovan interrupted, forcefully polite. “Nethril and I coordinated a defense that would have routed them, even if—”

“We would have died,” Nethril said quietly. “We would have died, and you know it. We’ve meant to reassess our defenses for a year now.”

Halrovan glowered at her, and she met his dark gaze resolutely before she reached for the pot of tea across the table, suspecting she would need it.

“Did Aragorn not place me in charge of the Angle’s defenses?” Halrovan asked. “I know my men. I know what we’re capable of.”

 _He placed you in charge because he wanted a friend at home,_ Nethril thought mutinously, though she was in no place to throw stones. She and Halrovan both were twenty years younger than the next senior captain, elevated to their positions by their closeness to Aragorn. Both consumed by a desperate need to prove their worth, but only Nethril, as far as she could tell, had the self-awareness to see it. 

“We needn’t send a full company of men,” Findroch said, catching on to the growing tension in the room. “Even a spare few would bolster the patrol.”

Nethril took refuge in her cup of tea while the other two considered, the earthy, astringent taste grounding her somewhat.

“They’re owed a full company,” Halrovan said stubbornly. “If not for the rebuilding efforts, those men would be out on the Greenway already.”

“The rebuilding takes priority,” Nethril insisted. “I will not leave our people permanently displaced, not after our failure forced them to abandon their homes.”

“So you abandon their fathers and husbands instead? Condemn them to their death?”

“We must ensure they still have wives and children to come home to. Sending fewer men is not a condemnation.”

“We are _Rangers_.” Halrovan emphasized the word. “Our charge is to defend the wilds of Eriador, protect those in need—”

“My son commands the Greenway patrol, Halrovan.” Dírhael said icily. His amiable nature had all but evaporated, his mouth set into a hard line. “I have more cause than you to desire them safe. But Nethril is right; we must bolster our defenses here.”

“Because of your mistake,” Halrovan shot back. “We pay for it every day—”

“And it’s done,” Nethril broke in, barely able to keep her voice even. She sent Halrovan a fierce glower of her own, anger on her grandfather’s behalf running hot through her veins. “I will not hear of it again, am I clear?”

Halrovan stared at her, shock plain on his face that she would speak to him in such a way. “So be it,” he said, and stood abruptly. He directed a short bow to her, then to Dírhael, his movements stiff. “Begging your pardon, my lady.”

His lip curled around his last words, an almost mocking tinge to them, before he strode from the room. Nethril stared after him, her face flaming, before she clenched her hands around her teacup and glanced back toward Findroch, arranging her face as though nothing were amiss. 

“We send three men to the Greenway. Brécharn at their head. Tell them to prepare tonight.” 

***

“If he brings up Aragorn one more time I’m going to kill him,” Nethril muttered later that night. Ivorwen remained overnight at the healers’ cottage, busy tending another child taken ill, so Dírhael joined them for supper in the kitchen of the Chieftain’s house, one of the few places left for privacy. The bustling, clamoring sounds of the people in the main hall reverberated through the walls, and Nethril deeply missed the quiet.

“What on earth does Aragorn have to do with shifting patrols?” Adanel asked. She sat across the table between Isilmë and Mellaer, a glass of wine in hand, and Nethril shifted uneasily at the way the old woman’s eyes narrowed. The subject of her grandson could be dangerous ground.

“He’s consumed with what Aragorn would do, if he were here, or what he’s done in the past. When he’s not insulting Ada Dírhael, repeatedly.”

“I’ve borne far worse, dear girl.” Dírhael said, and laid a gentle hand on her arm. “It’s hardly the first time I’ve confronted disgruntled men, nor will it be the last. And I will not pretend that ambush was my finest idea.”

“I approved it.” Nethril buried her face in her hands, her voice muffled. “It was a _good_ plan, no matter the risks. Yet he uses it as a cudgel, sowing discord among the men…”

“He is also your friend. Those will become more precious, the longer you wear that.” He reached out to touch Adanel’s mithril-threaded circlet, which graced Nethril’s head once more. 

“You know Halrovan, Nethril,” Mellaer said. “He’s a stubborn ass, but he’ll come around eventually.”

“I don’t know,” Nethril murmured. “Things haven’t felt right between us, not since the barrow-wights attacked last year. I don’t know if he resents that I took command, or…”

“You saved his life,” Isilmë objected. “I ought to think he’d be grateful.”

“Some men are proud,” Adanel said, her eyes darkening in disapproval. “They may acquiesce to a woman presiding at the council table, but will not tolerate her on the battlefield. That was a line even I never crossed.”

Nethril threw her hands up in exasperation. “What was I supposed to do? The Angle was under attack. We needed every hand that day.”

“I do not disagree. But some men fear it makes them weak.” Adanel shook her head. “Those same men took particular joy in Aragorn’s return, and chafe in his absence. They did not anticipate having to bend to another woman so soon.”

The warmth of the cookfire suddenly felt stifling. “He wants Aragorn back, or Halbarad to take my place, never mind he has no patience for leadership. And what if he’s right? We’ve seen so much death this year. Could another man have prevented it?”

“No,” Dírhael answered firmly. “Those who cannot see that are either young or foolish.”

“Or both,” Adanel added. Nethril let out a little groan and massaged her temples, the headache she’d staved off all day pressing out against her skull. Did she not carry enough burdens in these dark times, without one of her oldest friends giving her cause to doubt herself? 

“Eat something, Nethril, for pity’s sake,” Mellaer said impatiently, and pushed a plate of meat pies toward her. Nethril scowled at her, but she took some food from the platter despite her utter lack of appetite. She would do no one any favors, least of all herself, if she became light-headed or fainted with any Rangers watching.

***

Adanel’s words haunted her for the rest of the week, and she wondered if she should stop her twice-weekly visits to the training grounds, determined to keep on top of her swordwork in case the worst should happen. But Halrovan never displayed any outward resentment toward her presence, and from a practical perspective it would not do for her skills to lie dormant. As they approached midwinter, sometimes she felt the only time their friendship softened was during sparring practice, where he proved as good a teacher as opponent. It hearkened back to the days of their childhood, when they learned and fought together with wooden swords, quick to laugh or praise each other in equal measure. All children of the Angle received instruction in the blade or the bow, foundations so that all could defend themselves if the need arose. But only the boys advanced to Ranger training, with rare exceptions, while the girls turned themselves to weaving or healing or farmwork. Nethril never thought twice about it, but neither could she see how her inadvertent presence on the battlefield was perceived as such a threat. It had to be more than that, surely.

She was engaged in a particularly brutal bout with Halrovan one day, desperately holding her own as he unleashed his full strength, when he stopped dead in his tracks and she fell into him, carried forward by her own momentum. She turned to see a bearded old man with a large pointed hat, a staff in one hand and pipe in another. Her eyes widened, too out of breath to find the proper words, but he saved her the trouble with a deep bow. 

“You say you are no Ranger, my lady. Yet every time we meet it is with a blade in your hand.” The deep, sonorous voice carried a hint of mirth, and despite his stern expression his eyes sparkled when he looked upon her.

“Surely the customs of the Dúnedain have not become so foreign to you, Mithrandir,” she called out, her own teasing banter ready on her lips. “Or have you finally felt the fog of age?”

The grey-clad wizard chuckled, smoke puffing out from his mouth, and Nethril stepped out of the ring to greet him. He clasped her hands in friendship and she grinned widely at the most welcome sight she’d seen in weeks. “This is a joyous surprise. We did not expect you back for another decade or two.”

“I thought I should honor my promise to the lady Adanel,” he answered. “And to your erstwhile cousin, who asked I not stray from the Dúnedain too long. I bear tidings from the east.”

She’d almost forgotten what joy felt like, the emotion sweeping through her with such force she became weak in the knees. “You’ve seen Aragorn?” 

“Of Aragorn, there is no trace. However, an upstart young Dúnadan named Thorongil has found his way to the Golden Hall of Meduseld.” Gandalf winked at her. “His presence has stirred up an already lively court.”

Only propriety kept Nethril from throwing her arms around Gandalf in happiness. But when she glanced back at Halrovan in hopes of sharing the good news, her smile faded at his shrewd, calculating look. Any word from Aragorn would stir up the Dúnedain too, in more ways than one.

She drew in a resigned breath and turned to Gandalf, smile renewed, her breath fogging up from the cold. She extended an arm in spite of her disheveled state, one he took with the gallantry of a Rivendell elf.

“Come, let us welcome you properly, in the Chieftain’s house. I imagine you have quite a few tales to tell.”

***

By the time they reached the house she could barely mask her shivering, sweat from the training grounds now icy cold against her skin. She had no time for a proper bath, merely enough to scrub herself down with soap and water after she changed out of her tunic and breeches, cursing between chattering teeth. She pulled on the forest green wool dress she usually saved for formal occasions and frowned at the way it hung loose around her waist. Mellaer was right; she had grown too thin these last months, often too busy to remember to eat and vaguely nauseated when she did. Harvest-time had been the worst, when she spent sleepless nights consumed by fear that their meager yield would mean starvation in the cold, bitter months ahead. Things had not proven so dire, and with careful rationing, no one would endure a hungry winter, but dread seemed to have permanently sapped her appetite. She tied an embroidered sash around her waist so the dress fit better and vowed to eat well tonight, whether she wished to or not.

She sat for a few solitary, precious minutes before the hearth in her room, letting the flames warm her while she twisted her hair into an elegant knot suitable for dining with a great wizard. The Dúnedain had little finery to display, but they made up for it in pride and dignity. _Perhaps too much pride,_ she thought ruefully as she descended the stairs. The comforting smell of stewing meat wafted through the air, the now-familiar bustling sounds of the main hall echoing back to the map room. Gandalf sat with Adanel, Dírhael, and Ivorwen, all three crowded over a sheaf of parchment spread out on the table, bowls of stew set aside and quite ignored.

Gandalf looked up at her with a smile, but he huffed in impatience when she sank into a curtsey more befitting a lady of the House of Aranarth. “Do not stand on ceremony, I beg you. I had enough of that with Thengel.”

“The court of Rohan not to your taste, then?” she asked with a smile.

“It is certainly in a better state than it was four years ago. King Fengel had a long and troubled reign, ruled by his greed. His son, Thengel, possesses far better character and leadership, but he wishes he were still in Gondor. Which makes Aragorn’s arrival all the more interesting, as you can imagine.”

“Indeed.” Nethril raised her eyebrows and took a seat near the head of the table, pilfering one of the bowls of stew near Adanel. Nervous energy drove away any hunger, but she grabbed a hunk of bread from a basket at the edge of the table all the same. “He has settled, then?”

“As much as any rider of Rohan. I’ve several letters here—for his grandparents, for the good master Halbarad, and one for you.” He held out a roll of parchment that Nethril snatched from him eagerly, squinting to read the neat lettering in the dim light. He had used the code all Rangers did in their communications, one Nethril had come to know as a third alphabet, but she still translated slowly, taking bites of stew between sentences. She’d nearly finished by the time she read the full letter, and had to blink furiously so that her eyes would not fill with tears.

> _Dearest cousin,_
> 
> _I write to you from the Golden Hall of Meduseld, where I watch the wind tear through Edoras, horses’ manes blowing about. King Thengel has kindly accepted me into his service, and I have entered an éored with_ _Maebrôg. Even the finest Rivendell horse looks somewhat downtrodden next to the gallant steeds of the Mark—you likely think me foolish, but I reassure her every day (usually with apples) that she more than measures up to them._
> 
> _Part of this is reassurance for myself. You know how our kin raised me for command; here, however, I serve under an established captain. He is a steadfast fellow, and I find I can learn a great deal simply from observing his actions. I am afraid I am a poorer follower than leader, and feel sometimes as if I am again that barely-grown man of twenty, so uncertain of my footing among my own people. And I do not have you, dear Nethril, to ease the sting of being an outsider. I suppose I shall only have to remember your words, and what comfort you gave me that first strange year._
> 
> _Despite this, I believe more firmly than ever I was right to come here. If we are to accomplish all we wish, I must grow in body and spirit, and I cannot do it in Eriador, where I am already perceived among our people as a great captain (I do not know about “great,” but it was on people’s lips often enough). I miss you all more than I can say, and hope to send word again come spring. If winter is as quiet as they threaten, I shall have all the time in the world to write._
> 
> _-Thorongil_

“Well,” she finally said, once she was sure of her voice. “We can hardly ask him to return home now.”

“You thought to do so?” Ivorwen regarded her with some surprise, one hand still on the sheaf of parchment as if to reach through to her grandson.

Nethril shrugged, not wishing to detail her numerous conversations with Halrovan on the subject. “It has been voiced among the people often enough. No one could have predicted how things would deteriorate in his absence. He believed he left the Angle in good hands and, well…” she spread her own hands wide with a bitter sort of laugh. “Let us say my leadership fares poorly beside his.”

Adanel gave Nethril a stern look, her mouth thin with displeasure. “Self-pity does you no favors, child. You know in your bones that Aragorn cannot change our fortunes, that plague and enemies do not care whether the Chieftain leads or one governs in his name.”

Gandalf cleared his throat softly. “Do the Rangers know of your hopes for Aragorn, our intentions? Do they know what lies at the end of this long road?” 

“We can’t exactly shout it to the world.” Nethril pursed her lips. “But perhaps they ought to know. We have struggled for so long—”

The door burst open, and Nethril started at the sight of Faelhen rushing into the room, looking harassed and harried. She bobbed in a quick curtsey to Gandalf before she met Nethril’s gaze, her grey eyes wide with distress. “Apologies, my lords, my ladies, but—you’d better come, quickly.”

Through the open door, Nethril could now hear the distant sound of shouts and clattering, accompanied by a loud _thud_ that sounded suspiciously like a body hitting the floor. Uneasiness wound through her gut, making her regret her dinner, and she rose quickly to her feet to follow Faelhen out to the main hall.

Chaos greeted her. Shouts and aggrieved cries cascaded over each other, with women gathering children in their arms to haul them away from the commotion near the center of the hall. A table had been overturned completely, and a small crowd surrounded two men who traded punches. Nethril stared for what felt like an eternity, her uneasiness flaring into pure, fiery rage. She clenched her fists and inhaled sharply, willing her anger to chill to ice, before she shouldered her way through the crowd. She caught an elbow to the chest that she shoved aside furiously, pushing forward until she stood spitting distance from Findroch and Halrovan, who snarled and scrapped at each other as fiercely as they might in the wild.

“Enough!” she shouted, but the men continued their brawl. Temper entirely gone, she forced her way through until she stood between them, Halrovan colliding into her back. She shoved Findroch with all her might; the powerful Ranger was caught off guard enough that he stumbled several paces back. “I said _enough!”_

The hall fell deathly silent. Nethril stepped back, panting from exertion, and leveled Findroch and Halrovan with her fiercest glare. Both looked dreadful—blood poured from Halrovan’s nose, and Findroch sported a split lip. She threw her hands up in aggravation, unable to imagine what could possibly have come over them.

“Absolutely disgraceful, the pair of you. Brawling like Bree taverners in the Chieftain’s house! Is this what the Rangers of the Grey Company have reduced themselves to?”

Shame flickered briefly in Halrovan’s expression before he glared back at her with fierce defiance, while Findroch looked utterly humiliated. “No, my lady.”

“I won’t ask what caused this, because I don’t care. The very last thing we need is to turn on ourselves in these dark times. Get out, and reflect well on that before letting me see you again.”

“Lady Nethril—”

“Out!” she shouted, her voice pitched deliberately low so she wouldn’t sound hysterical. Both men strode past her, the great door creaking on its hinges as they made their way out into the night. She did not watch them go but turned instead to the rest of her people—Rangers who ate in the Chieftain’s house with their friends and families; women and children who’d spent months now without a home. Nethril’s entire body shook from the confrontation, her teeth practically chattering against each other, but she set her jaw firmly as she addressed those who stared at her in silence.

“I wish I had better words of comfort, words that would somehow lessen our grief—for I will not diminish it. We have endured losses beyond measure, our days grow dark, and never have short tempers been better justified. But we cannot turn on ourselves. Our greatest strength, our hope, lies in the bonds of our community. That is what we must hold to in this hour.”

The words sprang from her with no real plan, no idea how to end what had turned into a less-than-inspiring speech, and heat rose to her face from the pressure of every pair of eyes on her.

“Our lives are not wholly doom. We will see everyone settled into their new homes by week’s end, and that is a promise. In the meantime, I beg you all to keep your blows in the training grounds, where they belong.”

She directed this last bit at the gathered men, who all appeared rather stunned, before she nodded shortly and turned her attention to righting the fallen table. The weight became lighter quickly, Isilmë and Mellaer soon at her side, and when they finished, the crowd seemed to have dispersed, the commotion of the hall settling to its normal volume. Two Rangers around her age, Hador and Gellaer, both eyed her shrewdly and made as if to approach her. But Isilmë and Mellaer intercepted them, and from a distance Nethril heard them talk with their childhood friends of mundane matters, the shortage of iron and the best alternatives for repair. A relieved, shuddering sigh escaped her, and she quickly sought out two of the younger mothers who’d observed the brawl, who greeted her with grateful eyes. Her heart rate slowed to something approaching normal the longer she talked to them, reassuring them as much as herself that her words would not remain empty.

***

Nethril remained in the main hall until mothers began to put their children to bed, exhaustion blanketing her with such weight she wished she had the luxury of the little ones, an uninterrupted sleep and whispers that all would be well. Instead, she retreated back to the map room, matters still to be discussed with Gandalf and Dírhael. She expected to find the room deserted, but instead she found Findroch standing beside the hearth, hands clasped before him while he stared into the flames.

Nethril’s ire blazed once more, and she stalked to where Aragorn’s letter lay abandoned, rolling it tight so she would not have to look at the captain’s face. “Valars’ sake, Findroch, leave. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Forgive me, Nethril, but I really think you do.” His somber, quiet voice stopped her cold. She looked up to meet his troubled gaze, a bruise now blooming just below his eye.

“I apologize for my conduct. I can offer no justification, only explanation. Halrovan…” his brows furrowed in anger, and he shook his head as if to clear it. “He crossed a line tonight, a line no Ranger ever should. That he claims to do it in my father’s memory angered me beyond reason.”

Nethril remained frozen, her heart thudding at the base of her throat. Footsteps sounded behind her, and she turned to see her Adanel and her grandparents enter, Gandalf close behind. She gestured impatiently for them to sit even as she remained standing, her eyes not leaving Findroch’s.

“He came to me alone, wanting to discuss your leadership. I am in favor of your restraint along the Greenway, you know this, when he brought up last month’s ambush, I confess to voicing some displeasure.” At this, he looked apologetically up at Dírhael. “Not because of my father, but because of the risk of exposure. We still do not know if any survivors returned to reveal our position.”

Dírhael gave a curt nod, and Findroch continued.

“He then revealed his plans to take the men under his command and lead them to aid those along the Greenway, since you will not do it yourself. He claims his oaths are to Aragorn only, not to you or Dírhael. He said he did it to honor Meldroch's sacrifice.” Findroch’s dark eyes glinted with anger. “He’s an upstart pup—both of you are. You do not remember the pain of the desertions twenty years ago. Those men broke their vows and our spirit, and my father cursed them till his dying breath. To do the same, in his name...”

He became full of such rage he could not continue. Behind her, Adanel let out a string of curses in Sindarin. Nethril flew outside herself for a moment, seeming to view the whole room from above with a clinical detachment. She stared at Findroch in silence, before fury and hurt hit her with such force she could no longer stand. A howling vortex constricted her chest when she sat down, the _thump_ when she hit the chair surely audible.

“I’d have walloped him too,” Dírhael growled, his face dark with uncharacteristic anger. Findroch gave him a weak smile.

“Hardly my finest moment. But I thought you should know. If I were you, Nethril, I would address this now. Before it has a chance to fester.” 

“Thank you,” Nethril said, somehow managing to keep her voice steady. Findroch nodded, his gaze softening into something that might have been pity, and he bid them all goodnight before he left the room. Silence descended, the only sound the crackling logs in the fire, and Nethril stared into the flames, losing herself in their frenzied dance.

“Adanel,” she said at last, not taking her eyes off the hearth. “Did you ever actually exile anyone to Fornost?”

“It is hardly exile,” Ivorwen said tartly. “We have a full company of men in the outpost there.”

“And I only ever threatened it,” Adanel added. “After the desertions, I did not need to. Findroch is right. Those who remember those years will remain loyal to us—to you—always. Your generation is another matter entirely. One you must tend to yourself.”

“Of course,” Nethril murmured. Dírhael started to say something, but she held up a hand to silence him. “I will take care of this, but it must be me, Ada. I know what I must do.”

Dírhael nodded, sorrow etched into the lines of his battle-scarred face. “Nethben—”

But she stood abruptly, unable to bear the pity or platitudes of her elders. “Forgive me. I think I need to be alone, for a little while.”

***

She barely slept that night, but lay awake in the comfort of Isilmë’s arms, her thoughts straying to all the men and women who’d dwelt in the Chieftain’s house before her, her ancestors, however distant. She wondered if any of them loved as she did, if any of them had been bold enough to act on it in such an open way. She remained such an aberration among her people, an outsider in many ways, but still they accepted her, looked to her for leadership in their Chieftain’s absence. Only with Halrovan, it seemed, did she come up short, and perhaps other men she’d grown up with, childhood playmates who resented what she’d inherited. She hated that she had to worry about them now.

She finally fell into a fitful doze, her friends decrying her in half-dreams, only to jolt awake at first light, the morning cold and grey. She busied herself with morning chores, then offered to mind some stray children while their mothers caught a moment’s peace. Their shrill, cheerful shrieks chipped away at her melancholy, and she managed a smile when one came to her with a wiggling, spitting barn cat in his arms.

She put off her duty as long as she dared, until midmorning came and she could no longer justify dawdling. The wind whipped fiercely across the Angle, and it was a long, cold walk across the village, first to a brief meeting with Gellaer, then to the outer wall, where Halrovan usually spent the morning consulting with the sentries. Luck was with her, for she found him seated alone in the guardhouse, whittling at a wood carving that appeared to be a bird of prey.

“You still make those?” she asked. He looked up and gave her a rueful smile.

“Aragorn always needed spares for the Chieftain’s Call. Suppose we won’t have that this year, with him gone.”

“No,” Nethril said with a sigh. Mettarë would be spare this year—she’d wondered whether there should be a celebration at all, given the circumstances, but Dírhael had insisted. Decorating the house had fallen through the cracks, but they would have enough food for a proper feast, at least.

“Perhaps the children can take these anyway, even if it is not from their Chieftain.” Halrovan set his tools down, resting his hands on his thighs, before he met her eyes with a mild grimace. “Whatever you have to say to me, Nethril, better come out and say it.”

She shut the door carefully behind her, making sure the latch clicked before she turned back to face him. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her and did her best to ignore her heart pounding in the back of her throat.

“I’m reassigning you to the Glamren outpost, just south of Fornost. Effective in the new year. Captain Hallatan has needed a new lieutenant for some time now.”

He stared at her, clearly not comprehending, and ran a hand over his face in confusion. “You’re…I’m sorry, you’re what?”

“Sending you to Glamren,” she repeated. “Findroch will take over the Angle’s defenses.”

Pointed, painful silence filled the room, the full implication of Nethril’s words passing over Halrovan like a stormcloud. When they did, he slowly closed his hand into a fist before opening it—once, twice, three times—before he stared down at the table, his face contorted in anger.

“So that’s it. A lifetime of friendship, and you would toss me aside as if I were little better than a rusted nail.”

“Is it friendship, truly?” she asked faintly. “Is it a friend who plots mutiny behind the other’s back?”

His face twisted with mild guilt before it morphed back into anger. “It was not mutiny. I had no choice, Nethril, not when you could not see.”

“See what? I evaluated the dangers same as you. You do not have to agree with my decision to respect it.”

“Your decision,” he scoffed. “You know nothing of battle or the hardships of a Ranger’s life. You do not know what it is to be alone in the wild, pursued by orcs or Dunlendings, two days without food—”

“And you do?” she snapped back, her temper nearly gone. “You’ve not left the Angle for three years. I fought the barrow-wights at your side. What right do you have to—”

He slammed his hand on the table. She jumped back instinctively, hackles raised, but he did not move toward her when he sprang to his feet. 

“You fought those wights for your own glory, and little else. All who were there saw it. It is not becoming to play at war, Nethril, not when men sacrifice their lives for you.”

“How dare you,” she choked, tears springing to her eyes. “I did not force you to defer to me. I saved your life that day.”

“I never asked you to!” he roared. “You had no right to be there, and if I ceded command to you that was my error. All the more so now, when you wield it to our people’s ruin. If Aragorn could see what’s happened, he would never have vested his power in you. You have no authority to judge me, and I will not bow to a woman’s commands.”

Nethril shook with rage, scalding heat coursing through her body, and she stepped forward til she stood mere inches away from Halrovan. “The Chieftain’s grandfather stands behind me. Captain Findroch stands behind me. Brécharn, Halbarad, even Gellaer will swear to me. And if you think Aragorn would say otherwise, Halrovan, you never knew him at all.”

If she were a man, she imagined she’d have struck her by now—but if she were a man, they would not be here at all. They stared at each other, some deep, foundational core between them broken, and Nethril’s eyes became so blurred she could barely see that Halrovan’s did the same.

“You have a week to arrange things here and pass your duties to Findroch. Then I want you gone.”

She turned on her heel and yanked the door open. A gust of wind blasted her in the face, the bracing cold almost a relief against her flaming cheeks.

“Don’t you walk away from me, Nethril,” Halrovan called out behind her. “Don’t you dare.”

She stalked out of the guardhouse, past the stunned sentries who’d clearly listened in on the whole shouting match, hurrying down the slick steps of the wall despite the uneven footing. 

“Nethril!” 

But she kept walking, unwilling to turn back, and she swiped furiously at her eyes so she could see the path ahead. 

***

She did not see Halrovan again. He left the very next day, unwilling, said an aggrieved Mellaer, to stay any longer where he was not welcome. Nethril spent some time putting out small fires his departure ignited, placating the irate Rangers under his command and reassessing the Angle’s defenses with Findroch. Once Halrovan’s sedition came to light, the people largely backed Nethril’s decision, but it did nothing to dispel the howling void that shredded her heart. Grief had become a familiar companion this year, but nothing hurt quite as pointedly as this did, knowing that he lived and yet would never speak to her again.

She took solace in the company of her family, although they could only say so much to lessen her despondency. Mellaer and Isilmë were outraged on her behalf, but their anger somehow became oppressive, as if she did not deserve their support. Had she not, after all, been the one to tear him away from his home?

“Should we even be doing this?” she murmured softly, in one of her rare idle moments. She sat wrapped in a fur before the hearth of the great hall, an old book of poetry in hand while the rest of the Chieftain’s household strung together boughs of pine and holly for Mettarë. She’d meant her question to go unanswered, but Faelhen evidently heard her, and though the girl’s eyes held sympathy she still smacked Nethril on the head with a pine bough.

“Why remove a source of joy, when we have had so few? Might do you good to help, even.”

She declined, content to sit with her back to the warm fire and watch the merriment around her, a lightness to the women’s faces Nethril had not seen in months. The families who’d stayed here would leave tomorrow, another grim, hard-fought victory that rang hollow despite all her work. Though she had counted down the days til only the Chieftain’s family occupied the house, she imagined now the hall would feel empty and lonely on cold winter nights. 

Halbarad’s company returned from their sweep of Eregion on Mettarë morning, but Nethril did not have the heart to greet them, unable to face her brother or his judgment of her decision. Instead she made her way down to the small clearing on the banks of the Hoarwell, newfallen snow untouched save for some deer tracks across the gleaming white. It was the first day of true, bitter cold, and steam rose off the river in tendrils. Nethril shivered despite her fur-lined cloak—it was too cold to be out, really, but she wanted to watch the river freeze, to remind herself that nature still took its course no matter the trials of men.

“Your brother is a most disagreeable fellow.” Gandalf’s voice preceded him, and Nethril turned to see him approach her, staff in hand. She let out a small chuckle, her breath fogging in front of her.

“Really? He’s not with me. But I suppose I’ve always been his favorite.”

“Indeed. He is most anxious to see you.” Gandalf raised his bushy eyebrows until they disappeared under his hat. Nethril sighed. It was not becoming for her to hide like this, but she could not bear even the possibility of Halbarad’s disappointment, not on top of everything else she’d endured. 

“I begged him again this summer to take my place as acting Chieftain. I no longer trusted myself, nor the people’s faith in me, not after we’d seen such death. But he refused. He said he floated the idea among the men, and they nearly all wished me to remain. They agree with you, apparently—he is too disagreeable, too stubborn even for a Dúnadan.”

“And they were quite right.”

“It’s that ‘nearly’ that’s the problem.” A lump rose in Nethril’s throat again. “Those with no faith in my leadership—or a woman’s leadership, I don’t know. People I’ve known all my life.”

Gandalf remained silent. The wind whipped around them, cold biting ever crueler, and Nethril feared she might shatter from its sting.

“The worst part is, I _miss_ him. I’m angrier than I’ve ever been in my life, I want him to be miserable in that Valar-forsaken outpost, and I still miss him. I want to take breakfast with him in the guardhouse or laugh at the foolish things Beleth says.” She shivered, a lone tear freezing in her eyelash before she wiped it away.

“So it is, when the bonds of Men are broken,” Gandalf said. “The pain will lessen in time.”

“Time,” she echoed bitterly. “Time will not lessen his hatred for me.”

“Perhaps not. Yet I would heed your time, Lady Nethril, and hear how I have spent mine.” She looked at him with some surprise, his gaze suddenly somber.

“I have walked this earth since your forebears were kings. I knew Aranarth, and I knew Finnael, his wife, whose name lives on in your mother. She lived through the destruction of Arthedain, and she led the Dúnedain in her husband’s name while he rode to vanquish Angmar. It was she who brought your people to the Angle, she who kept them safe as their warriors fought far from home. And she played a fearsome game of dice, as I learned to my detriment.”

Nethril stared at him, at a complete loss for words. “I knew none of this.”

“I am not surprised. Your people have few luxuries when it comes to records and memories. But she lived, through circumstances as bleak as yours, and she found a way through. You carry the strength of your foremothers, Nethril Dirlaeg’s daughter, and it is thanks to you that Aragorn pursues his destiny. If there is one thing I may pass to you before I depart, let it be that.” 

She found she could not speak, her eyes filling with tears once more. “Thank you,” she finally said, once she trusted her voice.

“A wizard’s aid is not all spells and fireworks,” he said with a wink. “We have a wise word or two, from time to time.”

“The fireworks are best appreciated, though. What are the odds you’ll have any on hand tonight?”

“Depends. Come out of this wretched cold, and we can talk.” 

Nethril shook her head and followed Gandalf up the slope of the riverbank and to the path that wound through the trees at the Angle’s edge. Anxiety fluttered in her throat as they approached the Chieftain’s house, made worse when she stepped inside to see the returning patrol gathered in the hall. Bits of snow still hung from their scarves and beards, melting into puddles at their feet, unnoticed while they laughed and swung their children high in the air. At the center of the small crowd stood Halbarad, their mother on one arm and Mellaer on the other, both women radiating relief and joy. Nethril hung back, but Halbarad caught sight of her and grinned broadly. He broke away from his wife and mother to run toward her, and before Nethril could blink she was swept off her feet. She laughed in delight, and when he set her down she embraced him tightly, burying her head in his shoulder.

“Missed you,” she said, her words muffled in his coat. “Made a bit of a mess of things.” 

“Oh, hush. Mellaer told me what happened. I only wish I’d been here so I could thrash him thoroughly, for treating my sister such.” He gave her a lopsided grin, one that quickly faded into seriousness when he rested his forehead against hers, eyes dark with concern. “Are you all right?”

“I will be, Halbarad,” she said, and for the first time trusted that it was the truth. “I will be.”


End file.
